


A Burden Hard to Bear

by lha



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AO3 1 Million, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pain, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-13
Updated: 2014-06-30
Packaged: 2017-12-20 02:56:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 18,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/882115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lha/pseuds/lha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Burdens are not always easily shared.  Greg would do anything for his husband but that doesn't mean he can make everything better.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Long Night

**Author's Note:**

> “But who can remember pain, once it’s over? All that remains of it is a shadow, not in the mind even, in the flesh. Pain marks you, but too deep to see. Out of sight, out of mind.”  
> ― Margaret Atwood, The Handmaid's Tale

Greg felt their mattress dip to the right and resisted the urge to sigh. He’d hoped, he’d really hoped, that his husband would be able to get some proper rest tonight but two hours after they’d retired for the night it seemed that Mycroft was giving up for the time being. Peeling open his eyes, Greg pushed himself up on an elbow and waited for his eyes to adjust. The curtains were heavy but there was a sliver light spilling across the carpet from the hallway, providing just enough illumination to let him see. 

“Don’t get up,” Mycroft said from where he was sat on the edge of the bed, “stay here. I wont be long.” 

“Myc,” he protested, fighting the urge to reach out and pull his husband back down onto the sheets. 

“There’s no point in us both being up.” The resignation in the other man’s voice was obvious at least to him, just his discomfort was easy for him to read in the way that he had been shifting next to him since they had laid down to sleep. 

“Are you sure there’s nothing I can do?” he asked, wishing that the answer was yes. 

“You can sleep,” he said fondly, the effect ruined by his grimace a moment later as he used the bedpost to help him stand. Greg watched him go, gait stiff and shoulders tense beneath his cotton pyjamas before falling back onto the pillow and rubbing a tired hand across his face. He hated to see Mycroft in pain and this had been going on for weeks, longer probably he was beginning to realise now. The signs had been there for all that his husband’s poker face was legendary, but Greg couldn't help wondering just how bad it had been for how long and how tired the other man must have grown for him to be either unwilling or unable to hide it any longer. 

When he’d first seen the scar that marred the pale skin of the civil servant’s lower back he’d traced it delicately, concerned that he might cause discomfort. Though they’d known each other for years and had been dating for several weeks, this was the first time they had taken things far enough that they were both naked and in bed. 

“What happened?” he asked, crawling up to lie next to the other man. Mycroft, whose head had been pillowed on his folded arms and facing the other way, had turned his head towards him, and looked at him with a disconcerting hazel gaze. 

“I had surgery when I was twenty,” he said eventually, “three of my lumbar vertebra were fused together.” 

“That sounds painful.” Greg said, not wanting to pry into the past of this most private of men. 

“It was… uncomfortable certainly, but it relieved me of a great deal of discomfort that nothing else had been able to.” 

“And now?” he asked, rolling onto his side and running his fingertips along his partner’s back, tracing an invisible pattern up over his shoulder. 

“My movement is a little impaired but as long as I do not over exert myself - barely a twinge.” The smile that followed this was rare and genuine, the sort that had swelled Greg’s heart the first time he had seen it and continued to do so all these years later. 

Though Greg had been concerned by what had obviously been a serious procedure, Mycroft’s back had seemed to cause him no more discomfort than the knee the policeman had buggered playing football caused him. Some occasional stiffness after long flights or a twinge after overenthusiastic lovemaking was hardly surprising at their age after all. He smiled at the memory of some of their more adventurous escapades, of the week they had spent in the Maldives for their honeymoon when they had lived off of room service and seen far too few of the sights. The weekend away for their first anniversary however, had been cancelled at the last minute due to a crisis in who-knew-where that had required Mycroft’s particular talents while this year, he’d been two hours late for dinner and fallen asleep before they’d gotten to desert. It wasn’t always easy, but as his mother had taught him long ago, the things that were worth it never were. 

Greg must have drifted into sleep at some stage as he woke with a start at the back of four. The other side of the bed was still empty and though he hadn’t really expected anything else, he still felt a fresh wave of concern wash over him. Knowing that he wouldn’t be able to drift off again, he pulled back the covers stood, stretched and grabbing his towelling dressing gown, headed down the hall. He climbed down the stairs quietly, listening for the sound of typing coming from Mycroft’s study or perhaps the quiet murmur of conversation in a language he could only guess at. There were none of these familiar sounds however and the study was empty so he wandered into the living room and stopped in the doorway. Greg had brought very few items of furniture from his own flat into their marital home. Everything that he cared about enough to bring however had been welcomed with a tolerant smile including his reclining chair. It had been an extravagant treat to himself after his last promotion and while it certainly wasn’t on a par style-wise with the antique wingback chair that had once sat in it’s place, it made him happy. Having said this, Greg was certain that it had never even occurred to Mycroft to sit in it himself at least until tonight. 

The chair was reclined out to it’s fullest and Mycroft’s long limbs were carefully arranged along its length, the tension in his body suggesting that even though he looked to have fallen asleep it was not a deep slumber. Greg crept across the wooden floorboards and picked up the blanket from the back of the settee, freezing when the other man shifted but it seemed the unconscious movement had woken him anyway. He watched as his husband’s face distorted, as he bit his lip and groaned quietly as he shifted his hips. Greg stepped forward, kneeling down beside the chair reached up to brush the hair off his husband’s forehead. 

“Hey,” he said gently when the other man’s eyes fluttered open. There was a moment’s pause before he could see the walls being resurrected, the pain being filed away. 

“Sorry,” the other man said, “is it…” 

“It’s still early,” he cut in and they slipped back into silence, his fingers continuing to card through soft locks. 

“I did mean to come back upstairs.” He shifted again, a momentary frown creasing his brow. 

“It doesn’t matter love,” he paused for another moment. “Have you taken anything else? You must be due another round of pills by now.” 

“Nothing since last night,” Mycroft said through clenched teeth, shifting again, trying to sit up. 

“Here let me help,” Greg offered pushing down on the footrest to help bring the back of the chair back upright. 

“Thank you,” Mycroft said more than half-heartedly. “It was remarkably comfortable earlier but…” Greg just lent down and placed a gentle kiss on the other man’s brow before helping him stand up. 

“Well let’s get you sorted with some more pills and a how does a hot water bottle sound?” he suggested. 

“Good, good thank you.” 

“And then tomorrow morning, we can get you an appointment with your doctor.” 

“Gregory,” 

“Don’t Mycroft!” he said turning around to face him. “Don’t tell me that it’s not that bad, that it’ll pass,” he continued much more quietly. “It’s been weeks and it’s getting worse not better.” 

“I’ve already contacted Anthea and asked her to get something scheduled.” 

“That’s good. Really good,” he knew his surprise must be written all over his face. 

“It’s been a long night.” Was the hollow response. 

“Pills, water, heat and bed. You might be able to get a few more hours yet.” 

“Hmm...” the other man didn’t seem convinced, but he leant into Greg in an unusual admission of his exhaustion. His forehead was resting on Greg’s shoulder and he rubbed a hand up his partner's back. “Can we stay here? This is less… uncomfortable.” 

“As long as you like, love.” 

“Hmmm,” Mycroft almost sighed, “love you.” Though he never doubted the truth of this statement, the civil servant was more prone to showing his affection in deed than in the use of trite phrases but Greg felt himself smile none the less. 

He would genuinely have stood there until the sun came up but only a few minutes later it seemed that whatever relief Mycroft had gotten initially had worn off. He shifted from one foot to the other, his head burrowing into the junction of Greg’s neck and shoulder. 

“Come on, I’m sure there’s some co-codamol left in the cupboard that might help knock you out,” 

“I’ve got to work in a few hours,” the protest was feeble. 

“Well all the more reason to get you some proper rest before then,” Greg replied, trying to keep his tone light, “you head up the stairs, I’ll be right behind you.” He filled the kettle and set it to boil before rifling through the strange assortment of bottles and packets in what passed as their medicine cabinet, searching for the prescription strength anti-inflamitories that Mycroft kept ‘just in case’. The box was almost empty which was unusual as he rarely took them if he could avoid it. Reading the instructions on the box he was reminded of one of the reasons why Mycroft disliked taking them and turned to put a slice of bread in the toaster. The instructions Take at regular intervals with meals were easier for some people to follow than others and although Greg was certain that Mycroft ate more regularly now than he had before their relationship, his lifestyle still didn’t lend itself to routine. Pulling out the last blister pack, he reached for the co-codamol and pulled a well-used hot water bottle from behind the basket. 

Mycroft was just coming out of the bathroom when he got back upstairs, and looked towards him with what he was certain was supposed to be a reassuring smile. 

“Thank you for this,” he said as he sat gingerly on the side of the mattress.” 

“Don’t be silly,” he replied lying the side plate, glass and drugs on the bedside table, “eat the toast first huh?” The other man gave the bread a distrustful look before picking up one of the triangles. Greg sat down next to him, careful not to disturb the bed more than necessary, gently holding the hot-water bottle against his husband’s lower back. “This ok?” 

“Mmmm,” he said, leaning forward slowly and resting his elbows on his knees. After only a couple of bites of toast, Mycroft abandoned the slice on the plate and reached for the pills. He took the first lot without seeming to think twice but looked at the painkillers for longer before eventually swallowing one of the two tablets Greg had laid out. He palmed the other one in a move that the policeman wouldn’t have spotted three years ago. 

“Ready to lie down?” he asked after a couple of minutes and Mycroft nodded, blinking slowly. Greg helped him settle on his side before he crept in behind him, “Ok?” 

“Hmmmm,” he said pulling the police man’s arm down over his side, pulling him close and trapping the water bottle between them. It took a couple of attempts before they managed to settle but Greg allowed himself to be arranged like a life size doll or an animate bolster pillow. “Greg?” Mycroft asked after several minutes. 

“Yes love?” 

“Tell me about the case? The one you closed today.” Greg smiled and placed a gentle kiss on his husband’s neck. 

“Anything.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is more of this to come, some of it already written - I'd love to hear what you think and where you'd like to see it go.


	2. The Specialist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft visits Harley Street.

Mycroft had spent the last half an hour concentrating more on not shifting in his seat like a small child who needed the loo than he had on the conversation he was currently having the Foreign Secretary and was seriously considering standing up and yelling at the man just so he had an excuse to move. Just as he thought he was going to have to make up an excuse however, the Blackberry next to his notepad vibrated. 

“Yes,” he said briskly. 

“You’ve an appointment on Harley Street in fifteen minutes, Sir” 

“Ah,” he modulated his tone his audience would be none the wiser as to whom he was talking to. 

“And you will be going, Sir,” Anthea said, entirely matter-of-factly. 

“Is that right?” 

“Yes, your car is outside.” 

“Well if that’s the case,” he said with an air of affected frustration before hanging up. “You’ll have to excuse me gentleman, I am required elsewhere. If you can come to an agreement on which of the two of these options you are going to pursue, do inform my office. If it’s not the one I’ve proposed however, you would do well to look for advice elsewhere as I will not be prepared to offer you a get out clause again.” 

He had learnt early in life how much of a difference the way you moved, how you entered and left a room could make to the way you were perceived, so he made every effort to stand without wincing, to maintain his posture and keep his gate level as he exited. By the time he made it to the stairs he was clammy with sweat and though he had been desperate to stand and stretch while he had been chained to the table, being upright was not providing him with the relief he had been hoping for. Deep breath, hand resting gently on the banister even though he wanted to grip it till his knuckles turned white and one step at a time. Down the stairs, out the door, the occasional acknowledgement and a purposeful avoidance and he was outside. Anthea was standing next to the car and stepped away from the open door, tactfully looking away and providing incidental cover as he used both the door and the back of the seat to lower himself into the car. His assistant climbed in after him, taking the seat opposite and he felt her eyes on him for a moment before the car pulled away into the busy traffic. 

Once the flair of discomfort from that particular movement passed, Mycroft relished the moment of relief before the ache began to build again. He reached inside the left side of his jacket and with what was becoming a practiced gesture, pushed two capsules free from the foil package and tucked them into the palm of his hand. Taking medication wasn’t something he could be seen doing in public, though the bottle of water that Anthea was offering him now only highlighted that she wasn’t fooled by a little slight of hand. 

“Thank you,” he said, taking the bottle and the pills without further comment. His stomach turned, but he paid it no attention and waved away the crackers that Anthea also proffered. 

“I’ve spoken to Dr Spencer’s office and they've assured me that he’s running on time.” Her tone of voice indicated that she believed this no more than he did as they went through this rigmarole every year when he went for his review. He didn’t respond as there was nothing else that needed to be said and they slipped back into silence. His eyes felt like sandpaper and he closed them for a moment hoping to be able to relieve that discomfort if nothing else. He’d slept solidly for two and half hours after Gregory had convinced him to take the painkillers that had been plaguing his thoughts for hours prior. Between that and the time he had spent in his husband’s chair he had had more rest than many other nights but it certainly didn’t feel like it. He thought back to the morning and the more pronounced lines marring Gregory’s eyes as they’d said farewell, he’d tried to reassure the other man but he was a gifted detective and more than that, he knew Mycroft better than anyone else. 

Patience was one of Mycroft’s greatest virtues, however he was not used to being kept waiting. He sat in the clinically welcoming waiting room and resisted the urge to check his watch. The patient whom he had calculated must have had the appointment before his own had left fifteen minutes ago and while he understood that there were certain tasks that must be completed between appointments he knew from experience that this was an unusually long hiatus. He had been waiting, with at least the outward appearance of patience, for the thirty minutes since his appointment had been due to begin, when the door to the consulting room opened and the nurse appeared to summon him. He stood, a little easier than he had before the anti-inflamitories, and followed her through to the doctor’s office. 

“Ah, Mr Holmes,” the older man greeted him, not standing from behind his desk. 

“Dr Spencer,” Mycroft said in turn, taking one of the seats in front of the imitation Chippendale desk. 

“What can I do for you? After all I wasn’t expecting to see you for,” he glanced at the file sitting on his desk pointedly, “another seven months." 

"There has been a change in my condition which it seemed prudent to seek your advice about.” 

“And what would this change be?” he asked, looking up from the file. 

“I find that the increased discomfort we discussed at my last review has become… more persistent.” Even at the age of nineteen, when he had first visited the specialist, Mycroft had understood the value of frank and open exchanges when discussing matters of health with ones physician, however he had never felt entirely comfortable with that honesty. Pain was such a diffuse concept, impossible to quantify with any meaning and almost entirely subjective. He could report symptoms, frequency and likely triggers but when addressing how much discomfort he was in or the impact it had on his ability to function he struggled a great deal. 

“I did explain at your last consultation that that further deterioration was only to be expected. The procedure I performed twenty…two years ago didn’t come with a lifetime guarantee and as we discussed at the time, did place additional strain on the areas either side of the fusion.” 

“I quite understand doctor and in no way am I suggesting that there is anything remiss in the work you completed. However, recently the occasional periods of discomfort have become more or less constant and the measures you have prescribed to relieve them are no longer entirely successful.” 

“Hmmm,” the doctor said, seeming to scan his file again, “being pain free is not always a good thing.” Mycroft did not know how to respond to this, he knew the doctor had a point; pain reminded you of a weakness, a vulnerable area that needed to be protected. Perhaps it really was a question of him learning to tolerate the warning signals his body was sending him, that he was bothering the doctor when really he had already told him everything he needed to know. This sort of wear and tear was to be expected so long after surgery and the only option was the one provided to him on his last appointment and not one he was willing to accept. “Well now that you’re here we might as well cover the basics,” the other man continued standing with a weary disinterested air and gesturing for the nurse hovering behind him, to step forward. “If you’d be good enough to step onto the scales.” 

There was nothing, Mycroft felt, better at reducing a man’s composure than a physical examination of any description and although he was saved the ordeal of having to remove all of his clothing the experience was still bound to be harrowing. 

“You’ve gained again,” the doctor commented in a dry disparaging tone as he noted the reading on the old fashioned t-bar scales. This had been a point of discussion on his last visit but thankfully the physician didn’t feel the need to repeat himself and Mycroft was well aware that extra bulk meant extra strain on his back. There was no point in denying that his weight was something of a challenge to him; in his teenage years he had grown to be clinically obese but when his back had begun to pain him to the point where his ability to focus on his studies, or even sit at a desk for any extended period of time, he had addressed the issue with his usual alacrity. By the time he went in for his surgery he had lost four stone and was back to being an appropriate weight for his slim build. Outside of a slight fluctuation that he had never been able to entirely master, he had maintained this for the next twenty years through a strict calorie controlled diet. That was, he had maintained it successfully until he had married Gregory Lestrade. He knew it was not Gregory’s fault directly, but it seemed that there was something about married life that didn’t or rather did agree with his waste-line. In the last two years he had put on an extra six pounds that not only could he simply not seem to shift, but he was still slowly adding to. 

Once they had gotten past the initial barrage of measurements and readings, came the questions. 

“Can you describe the pain?” Molten lava came to mind, running red hot beneath a thin crust, the flow ready to burst through when a thoughtless movement cracked the top layer, but he suppressed his more poetical side. 

“It is much the same; a slow burn or ache punctuated by a sharp shooting pain down the left leg.” 

“Better or worse than prior to the surgery?” 

“I… It was some time ago,” Mycroft stalled. It was genuinely hard to say; though the fusion had been successful, it hadn’t left him entirely pain free and he had learnt to live with the continuing low-level discomfort. This was certainly worse than what he was used to but he could remember the sheer misery he had been in during his last year at Oxford. To start with he’d blamed too much time spent on the shoddy mattress and the substandard chair and desk in his room in college but it had only gotten worse even when he had returned home for Christmas. His mother had been the one to announce that enough was enough when she had found him wondering the halls one night unable to sleep with the pain in the early hours of a January morning. The similarities between then and the last week were not beyond Mycroft to see, “… it is approaching those levels,” he admitted after a moment. This revelation felt like it should have been met with some sort of heavenly chorus but instead he simply got another question. 

“And the loss of sensation? The outside edge of your left foot I believe…” 

“No change but I do find myself with pins and needles in the rest of that foot.” 

“Constantly?” 

“No, only when I’ve been standing or sitting for any length of time.” 

“Well, there’s nothing in either your results or what you’re reporting that suggests that this is anything other than the expected path for your condition to take. We’ll get another MRI for comparison but if it shows what I expect, your options stand as they did the last time we spoke.” The doctor folded his hands on top of the desk and looked up at him. “We go back in and extend the fusion to stabilise the area or you expect your condition to deteriorate further.” Mycroft nodded, more out of engrained manors than anything else. It wasn’t that he hadn’t listened to the prognoses provided at their last consultation but somehow he hadn’t expected such a marked deterioration in his condition so quickly. He could feel himself breaking into an entirely different sort of cold sweat now; he couldn’t have more surgery, it was simply not possible. 

After those holidays he had returned to Oxford but the drugs that made the pain bearable and allowed him to function on a basic level, left him woolly headed and slow witted. At the end of Hillary term he’d met with his tutors and acquired their agreement to allow him to submit his work, and sit his final exams in absentia. Instead of going home for Easter he’d come to London and spent the next three months lying flat on his back and most of the next three doing something similar. He’d still managed to graduate with a Double First (starred) also in absentia, but he’d known that the work he’d submitted had been far from his best. The concept that he could loose six months now was just not an option, after all, a long weekend in Scotland and Syria had suddenly descended into chaos. There was just no way, even with the best intentions that he could afford to be absent for that length of time. It was simply not possible. 

Mycroft found himself standing and accepting the prescription being held out towards him. 

“Thank you,” he said, glancing briefly down at the paper. There was an increased dose of the ant-inflamatory and also generous measure of codine which he knew he would avoid taking at all costs. He hadn’t touched anything stronger than the co-codamol he had taken the previous night since he was immediately post-op, partly due to the effect it had on his thought processes and partly because of his personal knowledge of addiction; if he could hardly afford one, the other was beyond the realm of possibility. He followed the other man and his nurse out into the waiting room where Anthea was sitting demurely by the door. She stood and crossed to the desk where she began a quiet conversation with the receptionist and the nurse. 

“I’ve arranged for the MRI and follow-up appointment,” she announced as she appeared at his side. “You’re due at Downing Street but if you leave that with me,” she gestured to the prescription. “I’ll get it filled.” 

“Yes, of course,” he agreed pulling himself out of his pointless melancholy. Handing over the sheet, he straightened his waistcoat and stepped briskly across the threshold and down the steps towards his waiting car.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading - I'd love to hear what you think and any thoughts you have about where I'm taking it. Lx


	3. A Wedding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sally gets married.

“Have you packed?” John called through the open door to Sherlock’s room. 

“Packed?” Came what he was certain was an intentionally vague response. 

“Wedding? Sally Donovan and some poor sod of a lawyer? Us, staying overnight at the hotel? Ringing any bells?” 

“Ah.” 

“Yes, ‘ah’,” he said, purposefully not allowing himself to get riled up. 

“Do we have to?” 

“Sherlock, we talked about this when the invite came in; I specifically asked you if you wanted to come and made sure you understood that we would have to stay overnight because Sally’s picked a hotel miles from anywhere.” 

“Yes but…” 

“No, you decided that it would prove an excellent opportunity to observe social norms.” There was no response to this but Sherlock did appear in the doorway fully dressed for the first time in a week and his overnight bag in hand. “Right, good.” 

“Oh don’t you boys look smart!” Mrs Hudson exclaimed from the doorway. “I do love a wedding.” 

“Don’t we all, Mrs Hudson,” Sherlock replied in an almost painfully dry tone. 

“Now how are you boys getting to the hotel? Are Greg and that nice brother of yours giving you a lift Sherlock?” 

“Ha!” Sherlock exclaimed and John spoke up mostly to avoid him setting off into his ‘If you only knew how dangerous he was’ speech. 

“Yeah, they’re going to pick us up on the way.” 

“Isn’t that nice, you’ll be able to catch-up before you get there. Now have you got everything you need? Snacks, presents?” 

“I think we’re all set. Sherlock, do you really need your coat?” The other man stopped with the coat half way of the peg. 

“Are we stepping outside the flat?” 

“Well, yes,” John replied, knowing that he was about to loose this fight. 

“Then I need the coat.” He decided that it wasn’t worth pushing the point, heaven knew there were other ideas he was likely to need to curtail before the day was through. The detective looked at him a moment before cocking his head to one side and seeming to listen. 

“They’re here.” 

“Oh, that’s terribly good Sherlock! How do you know it’s them?” 

“The engine noise of those monstrosities Mycroft insists on being driven around in is quite distinctive, combined with the sound of the tyres groaning under the weight of his ever expanding waste line…” 

“Sherlock, we’ve been over this.” 

“I am merely stating the truth and given he is obviously complaining to Lestrade about his back, then surely encouraging him to loose his spare tyre should be considered an act of goodwill.” 

“What...How...?” he started, before realising that whatever had led to this mis-deduction didn't really matter given that Sherlock was seriously biased when it came to reading his brother. The detective had told him about Mycroft having back surgery when he was younger, using the long recovery time he'd had as an example of his ingrained slothfulness. Greg however, had confided over a pint that his husband was having problems again and John knew that his concern was about what his husband was not telling him rather than anything he was complaining about. “Never mind, lets go.” 

True enough, there was a highly polished black car idling at the curb when they made it to the front door. Sherlock swanned straight across the pavement, thrust his overnight bag at the suited man standing next to the cars open door and folded himself into the back of the sedan. John offered an apologetic smile to the driver, before climbing in after him. 

“Hey,” he said as he sat, realising that there was no sign of the elder Holmes in the back of the car. 

“Hey,” Greg’s tone was clipped and he was quite obviously angry. 

“Did my brother decide that there were better grazing opportunities in London this weekend?” John was never certain if Sherlock simply chose not to acknowledge the signals that other humans gave off or whether he actively chose to press where it hurt. 

“He’s going to follow us down later.” 

“So just too lazy to get up in time then?” 

“He only got back from fuck-knows-where this morning, Sherlock so just… lay off.” Usually Greg, controlled his frustration better than this which made John suspect that things had gotten worse rather than better with the couple. 

“And you’re hardly in position to talk about anybody else’s sleeping habits,” John segued away from Greg and for once Sherlock bought in and railed against the banality of the rest of the human race. They danced around the issue for the rest of the drive and as long as he kept Sherlock’s attention directed elsewhere then they got away with it. 

As the car entered the gates of the estate any effort to distract Sherlock became entirely unnecessary however as he spotted the ornate greenhouses bursting at the seams with brightly coloured specimens. 

“You didn’t tell me there would be botanical specimens John!” 

“It was a surprise.” Really he hadn't known that this country house hotel also housed such impressive gardens. 

“I hate surprises.” 

“Then you’ll have no problem helping me take the bags upstairs and getting changed.” 

“There’s still hours before the ceremony starts and the bride is always late.” 

“Are you the bride? No, so you need to be changed and ready for the ceremony at two o’clock.” Sherlock waved him away and as soon as the car stopped he was out of the door and racing across the lawn his coat flapping behind him in the summer sun. John just shook his head before turning back to Greg. 

“It’s like dealing with a small child most of the time,” he said, then after a moment, “You alright?” 

“I’m fine. I just… I’m just so angry with him,” the other man said with obvious frustration, but if the doctor was any judge it was born from concern rather than anything else. He stayed quiet and let the other man set the pace. “He… he’s struggling,” Greg said with the air of someone who had been waiting for the right moment to admit something aloud. There was a moment of shared silence as they stepped out of the car and murmured thanks as they were handed their luggage. “He… the pain’s been getting to him and this trip seems to have been… it was long and he barely sleeps when he’s in his own bed never mind... I mean, he pitched up at six o’clock this morning and I just… He’s only met Sally a handful of times. He certainly wouldn’t ruin her day by staying at home and heaven knows he needs the rest.” 

“But he’s coming anyway?” 

“When have I ever been able to change his mind about anything?” There was a hollow chuckle. 

“Well, maybe it’ll be good for him to get away from work, see his husband all dressed up and walking the bride down the aisle.” The chuckle this time was closer to being genuine and he hoped that sharing his concern might have helped. 

While they checked in, John provided light and hopefully distracting conversation ignoring the doctorial part of his mind ticking away in the background. He had never discussed anything medical with Mycroft past the best way to nurse Greg back to health after he gave himself food poisoning but he trusted his instincts and the detective's judgement. There was no point dwelling on it now but maybe he’d have a quiet word with the other man later on. As if reading his mind, Greg paused with his door card half into the lock and turned to look at him where he stood outside his own room. 

“Look, I know you’ll probably have your hands full trying to keep Sherlock in hand but… I’m going to be stuck on the top table and I… Just…” 

“I’ll keep an eye out.” 

“Thanks,” the other man said with a worn smile before ducking his head and disappearing into the door. 

Despite cutting it closer than most normal guests would consider polite, John and Sherlock had been seated in what had historically been a family chapel, a full two minutes before the bride arrived. Mycroft on the other hand had appeared beside them only just moments before the organ struck up the opening chords of the bridal march. John had offered him a quick smile but his attention was quickly drawn to the back of the church Sally and Greg appeared and started their slow walk down the aisle. He was peripherally aware of the cautious manor in which the elder brother eased himself down onto the wooden pew and then stood again for the first hymn but was distracted by the musicality the two brothers showed when they began to sing. He supposed he should hardly have been surprised but it was nic e to be pleasantly taken aback by a change. 

After the service, there was the ubiquitous standing around drinking fizz of some description while endless photographs were taken but at least the weather was good enough that they could mingle outside. Sherlock had found himself a little gathering of followers – all of them under the age of ten, who had overheard him say something mildly ‘not good’ and get told off by John. They seemed to have decided that he was some kind of god as he had proceeded to tell them whom each of their parents were, what they did for a living and what the child would do when they grew up. He listened with half an ear to make sure that the consulting detective didn’t venture anywhere too inappropriate but otherwise let Sherlock preen and show off to his hearts content. Mycroft on the other hand was making small talk like a professional, which John supposed he was but there was still a number of signs that not everything was quite right if you knew where to look. His usually impeccable suit looked decidedly less well fitted than usual, his cheekbones more prominent than the doctor remembered and the set of his shoulders and the way he was shifting his weight from foot to foot was a far stretch from his normal stillness. More telling than all the other signs however, was the pinched, grey look to his face; it was a visage he was familiar with and one something that patients could rarely fake or successfully conceal. 

“… there’s nothing worse than an incompetent photographer.” 

“Tell me about it!” Greg agreed with his husband, arriving at their little group, “Anderson, Gregson” he greeted with a nod before turning his attention back to Mycroft. 

“Hey,” 

“Hello Gregory,” 

“Well, how’ve I done so far?” 

“You are the epitome of what a father of the bride should be.” It was the closest to a true smile that he’d seen form the elder Holmes all day but Greg’s gaze was searching despite his light tone. 

“There are some seats inside,” he suggested. 

“I’m quite enjoying the sunshine thank you,” 

“You will look like an overripe tomato tomorrow,” Sherlock called without turning away from his little group of friends to which there was a round of giggles. 

“I have taken the precaution of a little sun block.” John watched the silent conversation that continued between the couple as Anderson launched into a story of historic sunburn. 

“Can I have all of Sally’s colleagues please,” the photographer called from further down the lawn. 

“Time to get the mugshots taken,” Greg said with something of a grimace, gently squeezing his husband's arm, his eyes lingered on his face before turning to follow the others away. Mycroft turned to watch their progress so didn't see the small brightly clad figure running in his direction until it was too late. She collided with the tall man and he took an awkward half step forward, latching on to the planter next to him to help keep his balance. 

“Sorry!” the little girl called, glancing behind her before carrying on to catch-up with the other youngsters who Sherlock seemed to be leading on some kind of high-speed adventure. 

“Quite alright,” Mycroft replied so quietly there was no way the child would have heard. John might have been tempted to go and intercept Sherlock in his pied piper role if it weren’t for the fact that the elder Holmes, was still clinging to the wooden box and looking increasingly like he was about to be sick. 

"Here, let me take that," he said stepping forward and prying the still full glass from the other man's hand. He ditched both of their flutes out of the way before coming back to rest a hand on his shoulder. 

"Sorry, I'll be alright in a moment." 

"Take your time," John said, glancing around to see if there was anybody around paying any attention. The photographer had everyone facing the other way which was a good start and none of the other guests seemed to have noticed anything which was a relief given how little the civil servant liked scenes. Eventually Mycroft straightened up, biting his lower lip and sheet white. 

"Sorry," he said again, "I'll be fine I just wasn't expecting..." Again he offered an entirely unconvincing smile as he reached towards the inside pocket of his jacket but his face fell when he didn't find what he was looking for. "I must have left them upstairs," he glanced up at the house, "I'll just..." 

"Come on then," John said, taking a step back. "I'll keep you company." 

"There's really no need." 

"Would you rather I get Greg?" he asked gently, not about to leave him to his own devices. 

"No I... he's busy and he'll only worry." 

"Well then, let's get you drugged up." 

They made the trip up to the second floor in silence, though once or twice John had to bite his lip to keep from saying something about the slow and cautious gait. By the time they were behind the closed door of Greg and Mycroft's room however, the civil servant was almost translucent and damp with perspiration. John watched the other man glance indecisively around the room, his gaze moving between the chair, the bed and the bathroom. 

"Why don't you take a seat?" he suggested, steering him towards the chair. "Where do you think your pills might be?" 

"They'll be ah.... In my briefcase, I... there's also a heat pad in my suitcase if you wouldn't mind..." 

"No problem," he called from across the room where he was unzipping the previously unopened suitcase. Everything was immaculately folded, though the fact that the suit and shirts hadn't been hung-up immediately was he supposed out of character. He found the electric pad quickly and brought it and the briefcase back to the edge of the bed nearest Mycroft. 

"What are you taking at the moment?" he asked, plugging in the cable and turning on the pad to warm before unfastening the clips. 

"I uh, take the anti-inflamitories three times a day and the painkillers as required," he said somewhat vaguely. This was not the sort of answer he'd been expecting; either in the level of detail or in the level of medication. He pulled out a box of naproxin, still with the pharmacy sticker clean and white on the front with a date showing it had recently been filled. The other box however was obviously far older. 

"When did you last take the codeine?" he asked pulling out a blister pack and looking around the room for a glass. 

"I ah, I took a half this morning. It would have been about ten o'clock." John double checked the prescription details on the front to make sure he wasn't mistaken. 

"Well you can have two just now in that case," he said, popping them out of the packet. There wasn't a half left over which either meant that he was lying or that taking a quarter of the prescribed dose was regular trend. He was fairly confident that the latter was the case. 

"No, I uh, I can't... I'll not be able to string a sentence together John." Well that might explain why he didn't take the full dose at regular intervals as per his doctor's instructions. 

"I'm more concerned about how much pain you're in than your social skills at the moment Mycroft." Friend John was rapidly being subsumed by Medic John 

"I'll be fine, it... I just jarred myself with that reflex action." He shifted carefully in the seat, unable to hide another grimace or his pallor. 

"Well that certainly didn't help," John said before taking a deep breath. He didn't know what exactly was going on but this was not well managed pain and he couldn't help but wonder why it was so bad. From what Greg had told him, this recent problem had been going on for about four months and although managing pain and backs in particular was challenging there was no reason why they should have run out of options already, particularly when the patient was bound to have access to the best private healthcare available in the UK. 

"Take them Mycroft. You're exhausted, in severe pain which is affecting your blood pressure, your heart rate and your judgement, and no-one is expecting you to solve any world crises until the morning." 

"I... I don't... I don't know," he genuinely seemed to be at his wits end as he looked up from the Blackberry that had appeared in his hand. "I'm sorry... I don't know what to do."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks as always for reading and for any thoughts you'd like to share x


	4. A Discussion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Medication and conversations.

Once he'd been released from his photo call, Greg returned to where he'd left Mycroft and John but there was no sign of either of them. He did a quick circuit of the guests, looking over everyone's shoulders and eyes scanning the crowd for a sign of them but without success. He might have assumed that John had had to go and rescue Sherlock, or smooth ruffled feathers, but he could see the consulting detective leading a pack of children in what looked to be some kind of pirate/botanical treasure hunt. He knew that whatever was going on was likely to do with his husband. Mycroft had looked better this afternoon than when he'd arrived home that morning but he didn't, and was sure that John certainly didn't, buy the civil servants mask. 

He was stopped a couple of times by people he didn't know as he crossed the courtyard but thought he'd managed to dive away without offending any of them too badly. Once he was inside though, he found himself bounding up them two at a time, searching in his pocket for the keycard to his room but paused to catch his breath before placing it in the lock. He knew that this morning had been a disaster and though Mycroft had offered him a conciliatory smile when they'd gotten a chance to say hello after the service, it didn't stop Greg feeling guilty. Opening the door, he called out, 

"Mycroft?" 

“We’re through here,” John replied from out of sight. Greg closed the door behind him and walked past the en suite and into the bedroom proper. 

“Hey,” he said smiling in the hope that it looked more natural than it felt. He needn't have worried though, as the one he got from Mycroft in return was even less convincing, "you alight?" It was a ridiculous question and he knew it. Mycroft looked absolutely awful and was perched on the chair looking as though he'd shatter before he would move. 

"I’ve ah…I’ve been better," his husband said, swallowing carefully. Greg rounded the bed and crouched down next to the chair the other man was perched on. 

“Which is why you’re going to take these,” John said pointedly holding out two pills in the flat of his hand. 

“I just…” Mycroft glanced down at the hand that was gripping his blackberry. Greg knew that he didn’t like taking the painkillers, knew that he thought they made him woolly headed and slow. “I don’t know.” 

“Anthea did say earlier that she wouldn’t be in touch before Monday,” he encouraged gently. A shadow passed across the other man’s face and he could almost see him checking his own memory for anomalies. “Remember? When she dropped you off this morning?” Greg had known the trip hadn’t been going well not just because of the delay in their return but also due to the number of updates that had come from his husband’s assistant rather than the man himself. The sight of the other man when the detective had opened the front door that morning had scared him though. Mycroft had offered him a pained smile, pecked him on the cheek and expressed his surprise at finding him up, 

“I had some advanced warning,” he’d said glancing to where Anthea stood on the top step. Mycroft didn’t say anything merely nodding looking down the hall towards the kitchen. 

“The PM is out of the country this weekend,” Anthea said to her employer’s back while handing his case over to Greg with an apologetic smile. “And the office is aware that I will not be passing anything on until Monday.” 

“Thanks,” he said, genuinely relieved to hear that the civil servant would get at least a few days rest. She nodded and disappeared but by the time the inspector had closed the door the other man was out of sight. He’d found him in the kitchen leant over the counter, elbows resting on the surface and head hanging forward. It was a position that was one he had started taking refuge in over the last few weeks. “It’s good to have you back,” he’d said, placing a gentle kiss on the crown of the bowed head. 

“Mmmm, I’m sorry I was delayed.” 

“I’m sure it was the other idiot’s fault.” 

“You are perceptive as ever, none the less I would rather have not had to spend so long on what should have been a trifling matter.” 

“Ha! Nothing you deal with is ever really trifling,” he’d said lightly though it always made him mildly uncomfortable to think about it. “Come on, let’s get you up to bed.” 

“I hate to disillusion you Gregory but it’s almost time for us to be up if we’re going to collect John and my brother at the appointed hour.” 

“They’re not expecting us till ten, and you must be more exhausted than you look if you think you’re fit to be anywhere except in bed.” 

“Gregory,” it was a warning flare and usually he would have withdrawn but this was ridiculous. 

“No. You need to sleep. You need to take enough painkillers to allow you to get comfortable and sleep for thirty-six hours. Then we can have dinner and then we can go back to bed.” 

“Don’t be absurd.” Came the sharp retort. 

“Absurd? I’m not the one who’s being absurd!” It had only deteriorated from there. 

Greg knew that he had been in the wrong, that getting angry certainly wasn't going to help and he, unlike Mycroft, had no excuse but he didn't know how else to try and get through to him. Looking at him now though, still wracking his memory and strangely uncertain of himself, all he felt was a surfeit of love. 

"I... well..." he said, looking down at the hand John still held out, "I suppose." Greg felt as though an invisible weight was lifted from his shoulders as a trembling hand reached out and took the tablets. 

Twenty minutes of Mycroft trying very hard not to throw the medication back up later and it seemed that the civil servant was happy with this decision as well. 

" 'm sorry," he said as Greg helped him out of his jacket. There was just the hint of a slur and he'd been fighting to keep his eyes open for the last five minutes. 

"Sorry about what?" he asked lightly. 

"For being difficult," came the response, and the policeman couldn't help but smile. "You were right this morning." 

"Yeah well, doesn't excuse me getting angry. Let's get your shoes off and get you a bit more comfortable hmmm?" 

"Comfortable would be rather good I think. I might even take your advice and close my eyes for a little while." 

"Well I'll certainly second that idea," John said, coming back into the room from the hall. "I'm afraid Sherlock is in need of my assistance so I'm going to need to leave you for a bit." 

"Is he alright?" Greg asked, glancing at the elder Holmes but he was already out for the count. 

"Yeah, one of his new friends fell over in the rockery and there is apparently 'blood and tears'." Greg couldn't help but chuckle at this. "I'll have my phone if you need me and I'll swing back before you need to go down to dinner." 

"Right... yeah, thanks John," he called as john headed out the door, antiseptic wipes and plasters in hand. 

By the time John came back, Greg had lost his shoes, jacket waistcoat and tie and was lying on the bed next to his husband. 

"Hey," the doctor said quietly, walking round to Mycroft's side of the bed. 

"Hi," he said in an equally hushed tone, "catastrophe averted then?" 

"Nothing that a little tlc and a lollipop from the jar a reception wouldn't solve," he said with a smile reaching for Mycroft's wrist. 

"Ok?" Greg asked after a minute of silence. 

"Much better," the GP replied with what was certainly a professional smile though after a moment though his brow creased, "Has he seen his doctor recently? Or someone else; a physio or an OT maybe?" 

"Not that I know of, he went back to his doctor and he had a scan, an MRI think, but the results were what they had expected so the specialist said that there wasn't any need for him to come back in." 

"And this is the surgeon who performed his initial surgery?" 

"Yeah, look is there something..." he asked, pushing himself on his elbows but trialling off as he wasn't quite sure what it was he was suggesting. 

"I was just wondering," John began, "sometimes specialists aren't great about seeing the bigger picture; making sure their patients see other professionals who could help them manage their condition." 

"I've tried suggesting that there must be something else that they can try but he gets... I don't know." 

"Well it might not be possible for him to get any better but his pain is certainly not being well managed at the moment and that would hopefully improve his quality of life." 

"I know he doesn't take as many painkillers as he could." 

"Do you know why?" 

"Well this might be part of it," he said looking down at the sleeping form next to him. 

"He might have been alright if he wasn't already exhausted." 

"Maybe, but he thinks they stop him from thinking properly - not that the pain isn't doing that anyway." 

"Do you think he's told his doctor that he isn't taking them?" 

"What good would that do?" 

"Well there might be other drug options that would work better, or at least he could prescribe smaller dosages rather than Mycroft breaking pills in half." Greg didn’t say anything for a moment, he'd never seen Myc go so far as to break a pill in half before he took it and somehow this new revalation seemed much worse somehow. 

"He's just... he seems so resigned that this is the way it is. That there are no options... he just shuts the conversation down if I even mention it." 

"Well if you can encourage him to go back and talk to his doctor about it, maybe even let you go with him, that would be a start. Then if you do decide that you'd like a second opinion just let me know and I'll see if I can't find you some names." 

Greg was drawn out of his thoughts by a change in Mycroft's breathing and he rolled onto his side to look at his husband in the soft moonlight that shone through the window. Mycroft had been out like a log, barely moving a muscle for eight hours but the frown had reappeared between his eyebrows now and he was starting to shift about in his sleep. He reached over the other man and turned the heating pad back on in the hope that it might ease enough of the discomfort and allow the other man to continue to sleep. 

"Mmm... thanks," came the mumbled response. Greg brushed the strawberry blond curls off the other man's forehead, continuing to stroke his hair in the hope that he'd be able to lull him back into sleep. A few minutes later though and Mycroft's eyes flickered open, "What time is it?" 

"Just after twelve,” Greg replied, glancing at his watch. Mycroft frowned at this but it turned into a grimace as he rolled over onto his side. “Here, let me help,” he said, pulling a pillow from beneath his own head and pulling back the covers so that he could gently insert it between his husbands knees. “Better?” 

“Yes, thank you,” he relaxed a little, and blinked slowly suggesting that the medication hadn’t completely left his system. “Your speech…” 

“Went down a storm,” 

“I had no doubt it would. I’m sorry I missed it.” 

“You missed dinner too – think I could tempt you with anything? Anything at all?” 

“As it happens, I would go to great lengths for a slice of cheese on toast, with HP sauce if at all possible.” Gregory chuckled and leaned across to place a chaste kiss on the other mans forehead. 

"Whatever your heart desires. I'm sure that they'll be able to rustle up a slice of bread and some cheese." Greg climbed off the bed carefully and crossed to the desk to phone down to the front desk. Naturally in a hotel like this they didn't keep the kitchens open all night, but he'd spoken to the girl at reception earlier who had agreed that she was sure they could sort something out. It didn't hurt that Greg had been able to predict what might tempt his husband while sleepy and under the influence, to coin a phrase. 

It took some effort to keep Mycroft awake until the food arrived but he ate it quite happily when it did. 

"Did that hit the spot?" he asked with a smile, taking the plate away and settling back against the headboard and allowing Mycroft to very carefully lean back against him. 

"I shall regret it the next time a step on the scales, but yes." It was a careless throwaway but it revealed what had been a tender spot for as long as he'd known the man. 

"You're skinny enough that it's going to take more than a loaf worth of cheese on toast to put it right," he responded lightly, placing a kiss on his temple. 

"Hmmm," 

"Mycroft?" 

"Yes, Gregory?" 

"Have you spoken to Dr Spencer lately?" He continued to play with a curl on the far side of the other man's head but kept his eyes planted on the wall opposite. 

"Not since the results of the MRI," Mycroft replied, stiffening a fraction in his embrace. "Why do you ask?" 

"I just... I think... maybe you need to speak to him. About the pain." 

"He has prescribed what he can." Greg could hear that the guards had come down but was determined not to let it go this time. 

"But you don't feel you can take it and function." 

"That is hardly the doctor's fault." 

"But he may be able to suggest something else. Maybe a lower dose, I don't know - an alternative therapy? Or he could suggest another specialist?" There was an extended silence where Greg could almost hear Mycroft thinking. "Maybe we could go together?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading - let me know what you think!  
> Lx


	5. A Second Opinion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A morning in Mycroft's shoes.

While Mycroft had never slept what most people would term 'well', but up until recently he had not struggled to get up when his alarm sounded. Of late however sleep had become even harder to come by and though his night was rarely easy, he still found that lying in one position for any length of time, left him in particular discomfort. Thus, the act of getting himself out of bed come morning was all the greater challenge. A process which at one stage he was sure, had been perfunctory and efficient, was now drawn out while he paused at each stage to gather his resources to conquer the next. He had made it as far as sitting on the edge of the bed when Gregory returned from their en suite, a towel wrapped around his hips and water still running down his chest. It was a sight that once upon a time would and could have spurned him to cancel a morning's meetings but now all it seemed to do was act as yet another reminder of the hardships he was forcing his husband to endure. It had been months since they had last been intimate, many months given that autumn was now drawing in and while any time he had mentioned it Gregory had brushed his concern away, he felt it dearly still. 

"Morning," the other man said leaning down to kiss the crown of his head. "can I get you a drink to go with your meds?" He considered declining; protesting that he didn't need to take the painkillers, but it was only a fleeting thought. 

"Please, thank you." There hadn't been a day since the wedding more than a month ago now, that he hadn't taken at least one of the damned codeine and he was certain that that was at least part of the reason why he felt as though he was walking around in a fog. Gregory was back with a glass of water almost before Mycroft realised he had gone to get it. 

"Here you go. Shower?" He nodded taking the pills and the glass and swallowing them down before handing it back to the waiting hand. "I'll get it started, there should be plenty of hot water left." 

"Thank you," 

"Don't be silly," came the chiding rebuff. This time, while the other man was out of the room Mycroft was determined to make it from sitting to upright. He managed onto his feet with the help of the bedstead, his left leg giving out underneath him for a moment. Once it seemed that it would bear his weight again, he set off towards the en suite, crossing paths with the other man just outside the doorway. He offered a tight smile, Gregory's own smile in response, though undoubtedly well meant, was hardly sincere and inspired another dark wave to lap his conscience. Locking the door, he didn't allow his thoughts to dwell on this any longer but instead focussed on removing his nightwear and negotiating the lip of the shower tray. Under the spray however and with the shield of the running water, he found himself with tears coursing down his cheeks, biting his lip in order to restrain the urge to sob. This was not the first time that this had happened; the running water seeming to allow some of his less rational and more ill-suppressed emotions to manifest in such an unproductive manor. The spell did not last long however, and once done he set his focus to insuring that his husband would see no sign that anything untoward had elapsed. 

Dressing was a challenge but his appearance was so much a part of his working life that he was loathed to concede it anymore than was strictly necessary, though he had to accept Gregory's assistance with his socks and shoes. 

"There," the other man said, standing up from where he'd knelt to tie his brogues. 

"Thank you, my dear," he said, accepting a hand to help him up. 

"The toast should just have popped and your tea will be brewed to perfection." 

"I don't know what I've done to deserve you," he said and though it was intended to be fond it seemed to come across more as weary and somewhat pathetic this morning. Gregory simply smiled though, squeezing his hand before letting it go. 

"Your phone went earlier, I expect it will have been Anthea saying the car will be waiting outside. 

"Hmmm, likely," he said, taking the device from his husband and following in the direction of the stairs. The other man was indeed correct in that the message had been from his assistant, confirming that the car was outside and the details of the days schedule. She had also included a caveat that obviously she would see to any rearrangement necessary should this morning's appointment overrun. 

"I thought some honey might be in order this morning," Gregory said, placing a slice of toast on the breakfast bar in front of him. Mycroft looked at the side plate and swallowed. He could feel he was being watched and lifted a triangle to his mouth determined to appease some of his husband's concern. "I think I'm going to bite the bullet and go shopping for some work clothes this afternoon." It wasn't until there was a hand rested on his arm as a cup of tea was placed before him that he realised that he was probably expected to have responded to this statement. 

"I'm terribly sorry," he said turning towards him, "shopping? That hardly sounds like something you're going to enjoy." 

"But it needs done," Gregory replied still seeming to watch him closely. "Are you nervous about this morning?" It was a ridiculous question and yet he struggled to find the words to answer it. It was an appointment with a physician and nothing more and yet he was certainly unsettled. "I’ll be there with you and I promise, I'll keep my mouth shut this time." Mycroft felt a shy smile quirk the corner of his lips at this. 

Not long after the incident in the hotel, Gregory had accompanied him on a visit to Dr Spencer's office. He had expected it to be an awkward affair, not least of all because he had been fairly certain what it is that the doctor was going to say; have the surgery or take the pills. What he hadn't expected was that after Dr Spencer had said almost exactly what he had predicted, was that Gregory would quietly though adamantly excuse them both before swearing a blue streak and promising Mycroft that they would find someone who knew what they were talking about and had a shred of humanity about them. It had taken him several days to come to terms with what had happened and then to acknowledge that if nothing else, his physician's manner had been lacking. . Even now, the larger part of him couldn't quite bring itself to believe that any other specialist would judge his condition or prognosis any differently or even recommend an alternative course of treatment. Still, as Gregory had pointed out, the worst that could happen would be that there were no alternatives, that the second opinion turned out to be much as the first and that was something that they would face together should it be the case. So really there was nothing to be nervous about at all. 

"While the promise of your presence is a great reassurance, your silence is not necessary. Despite that, I am still willing to acknowledge a certain... trepidation." 

"Well whatever happens, we're in this together." Mycroft placed a hand over the one still resting on his shoulder, he couldn't find words and certainly couldn't get them past the lump in his throat. 

The atmosphere at the hospital was so different from that of Dr Spencer's office that Mycroft wasn't sure what exactly to think. He allowed Gregory to take the reigns; leading the way through the maze of coloured corridors, before speaking to someone behind a desk and finally gesturing towards a rank of utilitarian chairs. They sat there for some time but the civil servant found himself mesmerised by the activity of the professionals and the other patients. 

"Alright?" Gregory asked quietly. 

"Hmmm, yes thank you." 

"Mycroft Holmes?" a figure, presumably the doctor, called as he stepped out into the waiting room. They stood and he smiled, gesturing for them to follow him. "Sorry to have kept you waiting." 

"Not at all," he replied, finding that he was genuinely content to accept the apology. 

"Take a seat, wherever you'll be most comfortable. I'm Dr Simon Thomson," 

"Mycroft Holmes," he said, easing into a chair in front of the desk, "and this is Gregory Lestrade my husband." 

"Good to meet you both. Now I understanding that you're looking for a second opinion on your condition and treatment options?" At his terse nod, the doctor continued, "Ok, well I've got your records here and I've had the chance to look at them but I'd like to do a quick exam, before I tell you anything more." 

"Of course," Mycroft agreed, through he had hoped to avoid that particular humiliation today. 

"Mr Lestrade, you're welcome to stay or to wait outside whichever you both prefer." 

"It's Greg, please. Mycroft?" 

"It's entirely up to you." Gregory looked at him for a moment before smiling. 

"Then I'll stick around if it's alright with the doctor." 

By the time they were done, Mycroft had cold sweat drying beneath his shirt and it was only through grim determination that he managed to sit back down. 

"Ok, so first thing I'll say is that I do agree with the initial diagnoses of your current condition. If you look at this scan," he stood and moved across to a light box, giving one corner a gentle squeeze when it didn't light up first time. He talked them through the image, pointing out the original repair work that had been done and the new areas where the nerve was compromised and the discs no longer stacked neatly. At one point Gregory stood and moved closer to get a better view, Mycroft only not following him out of deference to having to stand back up. It seemed ridiculous, he thought abstractly, that this was the first occasion on which he had actually seen what was causing the issue. "I also think that surgical intervention is going to be the only option in terms of stabilising the disks and offering more permanent relief. There's no guarantee and there are always some risks but techniques have improved drastically since your last procedure." 

"Surgery is not an option." Mycroft said firmly, his anxiety level spiking. He could feel Gregory's eyes on him but didn't turn away from the physician. 

"Well the choice is certainly yours, all Id ask is that you keep an open mind and that you understand that longer you leave it the greater the risk that any procedure we attempt will be successful." The doctor left that to hang there for a while but just at the point where Mycroft would have felt his anger beginning to build, the other man's shoulders relaxed, he looked away for a few seconds, before coming in on a fresh tac. In another situation, Mycroft would have been impressed. "In the meantime, if I was treating you there are a couple things that I'd want to address, options that I'd like to look into." 

"If you would be willing to take me on then I'd be... If there's anything you can suggest." Mycroft found the words difficult to get out but Gregory offered him a reassuring smile none the less and Dr Robertson seemed happy to continue. 

"Well the first area of concern I have is your weight." Mycroft felt himself colouring and could sense his husband tensing in his chair beside him. " I can see from your record that you've been loosing weight for some time," he continued glancing through the file on his desk, before folding his hands and looking directly up at him, "but that needs to stop. You're already significantly under the recommended range for your height and we need to try and keep you as healthy as we can so that your body is. Can you tell me; is it that you're nauseous or just not interested in food?" 

"I don't particularly think I'm eating differently... Perhaps snacking a little less." 

"Myc," Gregory said softly from next to him, he turned towards his husband, brow wrinkled. "You're eating like a bird." The comment was gentle but somehow felt like a hammer blow. "I've been trying to tempt him with his favourites," he said to Dr Thomson, "but it's all you can do to get half a slice of dry toast down most mornings." He felt his cheeks colour again. 

"Mornings are... challenging." he conceded. 

"Well we're going to have to try and address it because if the trend continues it's going to cause problems." Mycroft nodded not quite sure how to process this. "Pain can inhibit your appetite so hopefully if we can help you manage that better it'll help, I can also prescribe something to help with any residual nausea. How have you been finding the pain levels with what you've been prescribed?" There was a moment where he almost gave the standard response, where he tried to circumvent having to try and put into words how all consuming it could become. Then there was a gentle hand on his knee, he turned to look at Gregory and at his encouragement, turned to the open face of the young doctor behind the desk. Taking a deep breath, Mycroft began to talk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait but I hope this is worth it! There is more to come but naturally I would love to hear your input.  
> thanks for reading


	6. The Next Step

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay folks but I wanted to get this right - just one more to go I think.

While Greg had never been naive enough to believe that getting his husband to see another doctor would provide a miracle cure, he'd also never allowed himself to believe that things could change as much as they did. They left the appointment with options; a long prescription, a list of contacts (some for NHS services and some for private practices) and a date for a follow-up. In the next few weeks, they saw an occupational therapist who identified what everyday tasks caused Mycroft the greatest difficulties and helped find ways to make them easier. As a result, Anthea sourced long handled shoe horns, chairs with higher seats and arms to make it easier to stand and a stool with adjustable legs. She had also arranged for grab bars to be installed in the bathrooms but she had drawn a line at shopping for beds. 

"I think this one meets all the criterion and it should fit into the spare room," Mycroft said as he sat carefully on the edge of one of the adjustable beds. 

"And we've covered this," Greg said, "they make them with two independently adjustable halves." 

"It's not fair for me to be disturbing your sleep - it's going to start to affect you at work." 

"Let me worry about that," he chided, "and as long as I'm not stopping you from resting as well as you can, I want to sleep beside you." There was a flicker in Mycroft's eye that let him know his point had been made. "And you know... I don't want you to get all the hydraulic mattress adjusting fun." 

"For the last time Gregory the mechanism is not hydraulic..." 

The physio proved more of a challenge; while Dr Thomson and Steve the therapist had been very open that he wouldn't be able to do much for Mycroft's back what they could do was help mitigate and relieve some of the damage that was being done to the rest of him. The benefits seemed to outweigh the initial discomfort and though it had hurt Greg just to watch, Steve had taught him how he could help relieve some of the tension he suspected that the civil servant had always carried without doing any more damage. Even the handmade leather shoes were swapped for something that had a little more cushioning in the sole and better grip underneath, though the cobbler had made a fantastic job and Greg thought they looked as soave as ever. 

After a couple of false starts they managed to find a workable balance of medication to bring Mycroft's pain under control and allow his appetite to surface again. There were still days when Myc's work schedule had to come first or when the carefully balanced drug regime wasn't quite enough but he had begun to actively take more pain medication when he needed it, and allowed Anthea to rearrange his schedule when she offered. It wasn't perfect but they found that they could claim back some of their previous life they'd lost over the past months and for the first time in months Greg felt the weight was lifted from his shoulders. There were days when he could almost forget but intellectually, he knew that the situation wasn't going away and that no matter how much better they were managing things, the fundamental problem was getting worse. 

They had survived the worst of the winter without any slips or trips on wet leaves or icy pavements but in February the inevitable happened and Greg picked up the bug that was doing the rounds at the Yard. 

"Really Myc," he said leaning his head against the somewhat grimy tiles of the station toilet, "I'll be fine at Baker Street. You don't want me anywhere near you." 

"I'd thank you not to tell me what I want." It sounded like he was in his office, using the speakerphone which meant he was alone. 

"I've just spent most of the last hour throwing up everything but my toenails," he moved the phone away from his face and concentrated on breathing through another wave of nausea "- I don't want you catching this. I've spoken to John..." 

"Gregory, I've slept next to you every night this week and we've shared more meals than usual. If I'm going to catch this, the chances are I already have. Besides, how am I supposed to look after my husband if he wont be at home?" The question was entirely rhetorical, "I'll send a car for you and I'll see you at the house as soon as I can." 

He had felt utterly miserable for forty-eight hours but he bounced back pretty quickly thanks, he was sure, to the outstanding level of TLC he received. Just as Greg was getting back on his feet however, he woke up to the sound of retching in the bathroom. The sight of Mycroft trying to brace himself against the wall, attempting to stifle his pained moans as his entire body was wracked by heaves caused his stomach to drop. It had been pretty grim and in the end Mycroft had been admitted to hospital so that they could give him intravenous pain medication and fluids. When he'd been fit to be released home, if not close to being ready to go back to work, they'd given him a set of crutches to help with the fact that his left leg, which had already been prone to giving way at odd moments seemed disinclined to help support his weight. 

"Just for days when you need them," Dr Thomson had said when they'd seen him. "They'll help relieve some of the pressure if you need to walk any distance and it'll also help prevent you from falling and doing more damage if your leg does give out." Greg had thought that this might be the point when his husband would concede to the surgery, but he had simply taken them without comment and while the doctor looked like he might push he had backed off. One evening a couple of weeks later, once Mycroft was back at work, they had discussed it over tea and slices of cake from Mycroft's favourite patisserie. 

"I know it’s inevitable Gregory," he admitted, toying with his fork, "and that the risks are only growing... I just... not yet." Greg had reached across and squeezed his hand before offering him the last mouthful from his own opera. The way Mycroft's mouth twitched before he opened his lips to allow him to insert the delicacy, made the policeman's heart swell. 

Over the next few months however, the dark days started to outweigh the good again, there were mornings when Greg could see that sleep hadn't been easy, when Mycroft spent longer in the shower and Greg wished that the bathroom door was really as soundproof as his husband thought, and days when his Saville Row armour wasn't enough to straighten his shoulders. By April the crutches were a daily accessory, and a wheelchair had appeared unannounced in the cupboard by the front door. There were no longer business trips because the travel and the unfamiliar beds took a toll that was just too high and even meetings in any of Mycroft's non-descript offices had been cut down to a minimum. Instead he worked predominantly from home, Anthea arriving promptly at eight each morning. 

One Tuesday morning, Greg came out of the en suite towelling his hair and thinking about whether he had remembered to order more of Anthea's preferred blend of coffee. Myc was sitting on the edge of their bed his eyes on the floor but he raised his head at the other man's approach and met his gaze straight on, 

"It's time." It took Greg a moment to process what he'd heard and what it actually meant and all the while Mycroft just looked at him. 

"I'll get Anthea to make the appointment," he spoke quietly, going to sit next to him and they sat like that, in silence, for several minutes. 

"I'm tired Gregory," Mycroft said finally, "I just... I can't do this any more." It broke Greg's heart to hear the words. 

"Then it's time," he agreed, leaning across to kiss his husband on the temple. 

Things happened quickly once the decision was made, there was a cancelation in the schedule of the surgeon Dr Thomson referred them too and Anthea was adamant that she could have everything in place. It was a good thing too as far as Greg was concerned as with each hour it seemed that Mycroft was getting progressively more tense. He would never claim to fully understand the workings of his husband's outstanding mind and he had given up trying to get him to tell him why it was that he was so against having the surgery but he thought he might have an idea. While he knew that he had been a catalyst for change in some elements of Mycroft's life, there were others in which he was still a neurotic, control freak and his work was certainly one of those. Anthea was doing her best to reassure him that everything would be in hand, and the surgeon had been talking about 6 weeks on his back rather than the months it seemed to have been the last time should everything go well but it didn't seem to be helping. 

"I saw the tablet that Anthea brought, looks like a good idea," Greg said, watching his husband carefully. 

"Hmmm," was the only response he got as the other man continued to pour over a file and ignore the food sitting before him. 

"Mycroft," he tried again. 

"Hmmm," 

"So I'm thinking of seducing Anthea while you're in hospital." There was several seconds where there was still no response and Greg just went back to eating his pasta. Then Myc looked up and blinked before replying, 

"I'm afraid she's likely to be too busy to have time for you." There was a twinkle in his eye. 

"Much like someone else I might mention?" he asked lightly. He had hoped to illicit a reaction but when the other man put his pen down and seemed to take a moment to gather himself, Greg was struck cold. 

"I know that we've discussed the precautions," Mycroft cleared his throat, "the arrangements I've made should anything happen, but I wanted you to know, that is I need you to know that I..." Gregory pushed himself over the kitchen table and lent in to kiss the other man on the mouth. 

"I love you too, more than I can say, but it'll be fine." 

"No surgery is without risk, Gregory." 

"No it's not, but this guy is the best there is and he's as confident as he can be that everything will be fine. I have to hang on to that." He watched as Mycroft searched for words before settling on a tight smile. 

"I had better get this finished," the other man said after a moment, glancing back at his file. 

"Anthea said everything was sorted when she left..." 

"Yes well..." 

"I think you need to finish your dinner and then we need to have an early night so that you can catch up on all the sleep you've not been getting." 

"Gregory," 

"Please?" It was all he needed to say. 

The following morning they had an early start and though Mycroft was on Nil By Mouth he seemed intent on feeding him; 

"Just a slice of toast, Gregory. It'll be a long day for you." 

"It's fine I'll pick something up later." 

"Please?" 

"That's blackmail." 

"No, Gregory it is merely a strategic move." 

"Give me the toast then," he caved accepting the pre-slathered slice. "All set?" 

"I believe so, Anthea should be arriving any moment." Gregory thought that he ought to be more upset by the fact that his husband's assistant would be accompanying them to the hospital but in reality he found it strangely comforting, as though she might be able to organise the surgery team the way she did the rest of Mycroft's life. 

The checking in process went quickly and once they'd been left alone Anthea simply held out her hand and waited for Mycroft to hand over his phone. Greg watched as his husband submitted the last link to his normal world of influence and then the look that passed between the two of them, before she stepped out into the corridor leaving them alone. They slipped into a strangely domestic pattern as Myc changed into the hospital gown, Greg attempting and failing to fold his clothes to an acceptable standard before helping his husband up onto the trolley. Whether by chance or design, and he strongly suspected the later, Mycroft was the first on that mornings list so within minutes the anaesthetist had visited and he was being given something to 'take the edge off' prior to being taken down to theatre. Greg almost asked the doctor if he could have something too as he tried not to show his own growing discomfort at seeing his husband like this; lying calmly on the trolley under an industrial quality sheet and florescent lights, he looked smaller than ever. Instead, Greg settled back into the hard plastic chair, talking about ridiculous everyday things and waiting for them to come and take his husband away. 

After a while, he became aware that Myc's attention seemed to have drifted and though the doctor had said the medication would likely make him a bit dopey, if anything he seemed more tense than he had been before. 

"Hey love," he said reaching across the gap and peeling white fingers from around the bedrail, "it's going to be fine, I'll be right here when you wake up." He didn’t get a reply but he did realise that there were tears forming in his husband's eyes, not knowing what to say, he simply squeezed the hand he was holding as they continued to fall. Greg had never seen the other man cry and although he was more than aware that he had his emotions and was capable of showing them on occasion this was so out of character that he really didn't know where to begin. 

"Right-oh, Mr Holmes," the nurse from earlier said as she entered the room. She was short and stout, eminently practical and seemed to have managed to see beneath Mycroft's firm exterior almost instantly. "Oh now what's this? Not to worry, here you wipe your face," she said, plucking some tissues from the box on the cabinet and handing them to Myc. "Then your nice man here can give you a kiss farewell and the porters will be here to take you to theatre." She turned away and busiest herself with something as Myc dried his face. 

"Here, give me that," Greg said, standing and taking the tissues. The expression in the other man's red rimmed eyes as he looked up at him would haunt him long after today. "Oh Myc, it's ok," he said, bending down to place a kiss on the other man's forehead, brushing away the tears that had started to fall again. 

"Please," the word was so quiet that he might have missed it if he hadn't been so close. With timing that suggested she had heard as well, or just that she was very good at her job, the nurse reappeared in their line of vision. 

"Right pet, let's get you lying flat and then you'll be on the way before you know." 

In less than minute, the bed was flattened, the porters arrived to take him away and Greg found himself standing in the corridor watching the lift doors close and block him from sight. "She'll have him asleep before he knows it and he likely wont even remember this," she said with a comforting pat to his arm. "Now, you look after yourself and try not to worry too much. We'll let you know as soon as there's anything to report." 

Anthea was sitting quietly in the corner of the waiting room when he arrived, giving the impression that her attention was entirely focussed on the laptop on her knee. Sitting next to her however was John Watson holding two takeaway coffee cups, he stood and offered one of them to two Greg as he entered. 

"Sherlock kicked me out with some surprisingly unsubtle hints as to where he thought my morning would be better spent," he offered by way of explaining his presence. "You alright?" 

"Not really," he said with a shaky breath before looking up and giving what he knew was a feeble smile. "He umm, he had a bit of an emotional reaction to his pre-med." 

"Ah," was all John said but he knew that he understood and they settled back into silence together. Greg closed his eyes, rested his head in his hands and prayed while time seemed to slow to a crawl. He could sense the other man beside him, his quiet presence strangely reassuring and he was aware on some level of Anthea coming and going and of the other seats filling around them. The only thing that seemed to register properly was when someone in scrubs would step inside and call a name. Each time, he'd feel his heart begin to pound and when the name that was called wasn't Myc's he couldn't decide whether that was good or bad. He couldn't remember how long the procedure was supposed to take or even what time they had wheeled Mycroft away, all he could think about was what he was going to do if something went wrong. What if he died, what if was paralysed or if he had another bad reaction to something and his mind was damaged? How would Mycroft cope if he had to spend the rest of his life in a chair, or worse if he could tell that his All those thoughts he had been trying to manage for so long suddenly crashing around his brain. 

It could have been minutes or hours later when John handed him a sandwich and more coffee, 

"Eat now, you wont want to leave once they've let you in to see him." He nodded and took the proffered items peeling back the paper. It seemed to take an inordinate amount of time to work his way through the food but he kept chewing and tried to distract himself by watching the other people around them. Anthea returned without saying a word, took her eat again and started tapping as though she'd never left. He wondered sometimes, just how dedicated to Mycroft she was, not his position, not her job but to the man himself. He wondered if she would stick around if things didn't work out as he hoped, he tried not to read anything into the fact that she stood and left the room with her blackberry to her ear as he was contemplating this. 

Then it was Mycroft Holmes the surgeon was calling as he stepped into the room,. and Greg found himself pulled out of his own thoughts It was as though someone had flushed his veins with ice water. He stood, John next to him, and walked across the room on unsteady legs, following the doctor as he led them out into the corridor. 

"The surgery went well, I was able to visualise the area of weakness and I'm confident that the measures we've put in should stabilise the vertebrae and prevent the nerves from being further compromised." The relief Greg felt was beyond words and he almost missed what came next. "Mr Holmes is in recovery just now, and should wake up shortly, if you'd like to go through Mr Lestrade?" 

"Yeah," he said glancing to John. 

"I'll stick around, let Anthea know when she get's back," the army doctor said with a gentle smile. He thanked him and turned to follow the surgeon through the swing doors. 

Greg's breath caught in his throat when he first spotted Mycroft, 

"Why have you restrained him?" he asked, turning on one of the medical staff who was adjusting a drip. 

"It's just a precaution to make sure he doesn't hurt himself or the work that's been done when he's waking up - common practice after this kind of surgery." As if on cue, Mycroft began to stir, and Greg could see him shifting against the bonds, seeming to test them before going entirely still. 

"Myc?" Greg asked, stepping closer to the head of the bed. "Welcome back love," he said as his husband peeled his eyes open. Mycroft blinked several times before his eyes, came into focus and then once again as a furrow formed between his brows. He started to shift in his bed again, flexing his arms and testing the broad bonds across his chest and hips. 

"Hey love, it's ok," he said, brushing the hair back off of his forehead. 

"No." Was all he said, closing his eyes, the crease between his eyes deepening. 

"Mycroft?" Greg asked, glancing around for medical personnel. 

"No. You can't be here. You can't be." 

"Well I am, see?" he said reaching down and taking his hand. 

"But if you're here... I can't tell them Gregory. Even if they have got you..." The distress in his tone was evident, and Greg looked up at the anaesthetist who'd reappeared at the other side of the bed. 

"Mr Holmes?" she asked, waiting for Mycroft to turn and look at her. "You're in hospital. You've just had surgery but it went very well." Mycroft looked at him blinking slowly but it didn't seem as though information was sinking in. 

"I won't tell you... Even if you hurt him... I can't... Please don't..." The gaps between his protestations were getting longer, his eyelids drooping further and his words beginning to slur. 

"It's nothing to be worried about," the doctor said to Greg when it became clear that Mycroft had fallen back asleep, "it's quite common for people to be confused when they wake up at first and the brain will jump to all sorts of unlikely conclusions. James Bond-esque scenarios are more common than you might think but the chances are excellent that the next time he wakes up he'll be much more like himself." Greg didn't even know where to begin with that statement but decided that he'd just have to trust that whatever it was that was going on inside Mycroft's head it wasn't based too closely in fact and wouldn't still be haunting him when he woke.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for reading and as ever I'd love to hear your thoughts - where would you like to see this story end?


	7. Passing for Normal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things return to what passes for normal, at least for now.

Mycroft drifted toward consciousness which in and of itself was enough for him to know that something was wrong. His eyes felt as though they were glued shut and his thought processes were clouded, memories just out of reach. Without any idea how or why he'd ended up wherever he was, he started gathering what information he could; even without opening his eyes he knew that the room was bright, he could feel good quality but industrial sheets beneath him and there was something lying across his face. He tried to lift his hand and get a better idea of what it was, but... Yes... he appeared to have be in restraints. Peeling open his eyes, the fact that he was in a hospital and why that was came back to him in a rush. 

"Hey there beautiful," Gregory's voice seemed to puncture the muted bubble around him as the sounds of monitors and foot traffic outside the room rushed into focus. 

"Gregory?" he tried, licking his parched lips as his eyes focused on the face hovering anxiously above him. He leaned into the hand that was cupping his face and when he blinked he had to fight to get them open again. 

"I'm right here love, everything's fine." 

"I appear to be strapped to the bed Gregory. Not fine. Why?" 

"Just a precaution, so you couldn't do yourself any harm. while you were waking up and figuring out what was going on." 

"Hmm know what's going on...in hospital, back surgery." 

"Glad to hear it," Greg said, brushing his hand through Mycroft's hair, "You weren't quite so sure last time you woke up." He frowned, trying to remember waking up here before but anything outside of the immediate was fuzzy. 

"Off now though..." Oh good grief that was barely English, but it got the point across and for some reason had brought a more genuine smile from his husband then he'd seen so far. 

"You just rest there and I’ll go see about getting the restraints off." Mycroft tried to thank him, to express his gratitude in general but he couldn't seem to form the words before a tide of weariness pulled him back down. 

He spent the majority of the next few days asleep and when he was awake, was so heavily medicated that he couldn't do much more than follow the conversations around him. Having said that, everyone seemed pleased with how the procedure had gone and his progress. On day three he managed to stay awake long enough to convince Gregory that he should go home, shower and go back to work as he was perfectly capable of sleeping un-guarded. Anthea had her first official visit on day four, bringing briefing papers covering what had been going on while he had been out of commission. They started working on some papers and while the process was slower than usual and it took far more involvement from his PA than normal, Mycroft was reassured that his mind appeared to be intact. Day five saw Sherlock arriving in a whirl wind, offending everyone including the two physiotherapists who had very carefully gotten him out of bed for the first time. 

"Really Sherlock," he protested weakly trying not to think about how much the simple act of standing up had drained him, "could you have picked a less convenient time?" 

"Is that a challenge?" Sherlock threw himself into the visitors chair, wrapping his coat around him and tucking his chin into his chest. 

"You see everything as a challenge." 

"Not everything. Some things are just boring." 

"Such as invalids?" 

"You are not an invalid. You are merely temporarily incapacitated." Mycroft raised an eyebrow. 

"As you say." There was silence after this but that was nothing new. 

"I wish to play chess." 

"Then you should have brought a set. I am sure there is likely one in a recreation room somewhere however, if you wish to look..." 

"Boring." 

"Well then..." 

"We can play without. You can be white but only because you need all the help you can get." 

"Very well," he agreed with a forlorn sigh. "King's pawn to E4." 

Gregory arrived while they were mid way through their third game and just as his pain medication was waning enough that he was having trouble concentrating. Sherlock flounced and complained before sweeping back out the room but didn't mention the unfinished game or the fact that he was very close to winning for the first time that afternoon. 

Now that he had been upright, although it was made excruciatingly clear that he should only be so for very short periods and 'essential' reasons, his release was imminent and while Mycroft was more than keen to leave the sterile, never silent, never dark hospital he was more than aware of the burden his care would be outside of a specialised environment. Gregory was assuring him that he and Anthea had everything in hand but somehow that didn't seem to help his generalised anxiety. 

"Love?" Gregory asked, squeezing the hand he was holding and breaking him out from his thoughts. 

"Gregory," he responded, offering a smile he knew wouldn't convince the other man. 

"I can't wait to have you home, I want to be able to lie down next to you in our bed." 

"I don't think I'm quite ready for any of your more inventive ideas," he said lightly. 

"It'll make it easier for me to check that you're still breathing in the middle of the night though." 

"I hardly think..." 

"Myc, stop stressing. I want you home." 

"But..." 

"But nothing. There will be people in to help with the things I can't do, and I'm more than willing to do what I can. I've got two weeks of annual leave booked and then we'll see how things go." 

"I don't like that I'm putting you..." he stopped seeing the look on his husband's face. "Thank you. I love you too." 

The journey itself was something that he would be glad not to repeat, despite the fact that his medication had been increased again. Sleeping in his own bed was however, something he would never underestimate the benefit of again. They settled into a routine quickly and though he would never relish the level of assistance he still required, he was able to work and he was seeing more or less consistent improvement in his condition. 

"Are you sure - I could get more time..." Greg asked, stripping off and throwing his t-shirt into the laundry hamper. 

"It's been four weeks Gregory and while I enjoy your presence deeply it's time for you to return to work." It was true, while he was still spending the majority of his time lying flat he was allowed to get up for short intervals, he was taking less medication now than he had been in over a year and his physiotherapy was no longer the traumatic interlude it had been. The other man came across and perched on his side of the bed, his brows drawn. "Genuinely my dear," he said reaching out to take his husband's hand, "Anthea and I can be trusted not to get into trouble." 

"I don't believe that for a minute," he said seriously but there was a twinkle in his eye that belied him. 

"Perhaps," Mycroft acknowledged with a smile, "now hurry up and get ready for bed." 

"Yes sir, Mr cuddle monster." 

"Are you objecting?" 

"Never," he replied as he rounded the bed. While they were still in the adjustable bed, Gregory could now be convinced to move close enough to rest a head on Mycroft's shoulder and an arm across his waist and this was something he relished. 

Mycroft paused in what he was doing as he heard the door at the front of the house open, the quiet beep of the alarm quickly silenced followed by the sound of shoes being toed off. There was a pause and then the Civil Servant smiled as he heard Gregory lean down and pick up the shoes and then throw them into the hall cupboard. Out of sight out of mind was one of his husband's less favourable tendencies, he had however stopped abandoning his footwear wherever he happened to remove them. 

"Myc?" the other man called. 

"In the kitchen," he replied. 

"What have you been up to?" 

"I thought I'd make us some dinner." 

"You shouldn't..." 

"Gregory," he said firmly, "I am perfectly able to stand up long enough to make a simple meal, in fact it was actively encouraged by my physio therapist." 

"And you're not sore?" 

"No. I sat down to prepare the vegetables and asked Anthea to retrieve the dish before she left and now, I am going to ask you to put it in the oven." 

"Oh... sure..." 

"I am not taking unnecessary risks Gregory." 

"I know... I just..." Mycroft silenced him with a kiss. 

"Put that in the oven and I'll get out the starters. There's a bottle of white chilling or I believe there's some lager in the fridge." 

"White's fine." Mycroft could see the question forming on the other man's face. He hadn't had a glass of wine in months but now that the strongest painkiller he'd had in a week was paracetamol and his regular dose of ibuprofen was down at over the counter levels. "How was you're day?" he asked as they sat down. 

"Good actually, we've got some nice leads shaping up..." It was such a pleasure to simply sit there listening to Gregory talk through his investigation as they ate. His mobile rang just as the other man was removing the salmon from the oven, and he excused himself to the study, suspecting what it was that call related to. He thought about his desk, however, his back was beginning to tire so chose the ergonomic recliner instead which while much more stylish than Gregory's favourite chair, allowed him to lie almost horizontally. It was two hours later when he ended the call, the incident resolved at least for the time being. Gregory looked up from the TV and offered him a tolerant smile, 

"Come on, that salmon should be good cold. I'll sit with you with you eat, we need to discuss what we're going to do for Sherlock's birthday. It's only a few weeks ago now and you know how he gets..." 

While his younger brother continued to claim that marking such occasions as his entry to the world was neither necessary or desired, he never the less grasped any opportunity attempt and make Mycroft uncomfortable. He had declared that if they must consume food in his honour it would be at Angelos which nobody was objecting to. It was only when they were all in a taxi and en route that he realised his mistake. 

"You've been to Angelo's," he declared as though discovering that someone had opened their Christmas presents on the 23rd. 

"Well of course we have," Greg replied lightly, "John said it was good." The doctor snorted at this as Sherlock folded his arms and looked out the window. 

"I have been known to chose to eat in restaurants that are not in possession of Michelin stars voluntarily Sherlock." 

"The food's amazing, I've been looking forward to this all week," Gregory declared as the taxi drew up. Sherlock was out the door as soon as they stopped, and inside the restaurant before Mycroft had removed his wallet to pay the cabby. 

"Alright?" John asked as he carefully stepped out onto the pavement and straightened up. 

"Quite, thank you." The doctor looked at him a moment with an unmistakable professional gaze. 

"You're looking well, and so's Greg for that matter." 

"I feel well," he agreed. 

"Persistant symptoms?" 

"The paresthesia in my left foot is better than it was ten weeks ago, worse than it was 18 months ago." 

"Not surprising I suppose, pain?" he asked as Mycroft held the door to allow the other man to enter before him 

"Negligible." John raised an eyebrow as he passed. "No worse than 18 months ago," he elaborated before pausing again. He watched as the owner greeted Sherlock and Gregory effusively and raised a hand in acknowledgement when the Italian looked across at them. "Both the discomfort and the tingling are worse if I remain standing or sitting for too long but that is manageable." 

"For someone who spends all their time sitting on their well padded rear, a challenge however," Sherlock sniped petulantly as they approached the table. 

"Perhaps for someone who has no self control," Mycroft replied lightly, taking the seat Gregory indicated before turning back to John, "I'm also led to believe that while this surgery will not hold forever, if I continue with the physiotherapy I can ensure that the musculature supports the area as well as possible. Ah, buona sera Angelo, mi fido di te e la tua famiglia sono sani?" 

"Benvenuto amico, sì, sì, sono ben!" 

"Eccellente, Potremmo avere una bottiglia di quel delizioso barolo abbiamo avuto l'ultima volta?" 

"Pretentious show off," Sherlock mumbled. 

"But of course Mr Holmes, I will bring the wine and some breads while you look at the menu. And perhaps some milk for young Mr Sherlock." 

"Grazie Angelo," Mycroft replied with a gentle smile and an inclination of his head. "Merely getting my ear in Sherlock," 

"Ah of course, meeting of the European Heads of State," Sherlock said. 

"But then I'm going to fly out and we're spending a week in Umbria," Gregory interjected and John picked up the baton and ran with it. While the two of them talked Mycroft watched them as they discussed the merits of swimming pools versus seaside resorts. After a few minutes, he saw Sherlock unfold from his seat opposite him, 

"Did you get me a present?" he asked, not making eye contact. 

"Of course I did," Mycroft replied, reaching into the inside pocket of his jacket his fingers wrapped around a USB stick. 

"You should order the salad," Sherlock declared, his voice perceptibly louder as the conversation next to them lulled and Angelo approached with their wine, "controlling your weight will help minimise the risk of you breaking your back for the third time. Repetition is boring." The four of them were silent for a moment, and Mycroft refused to look away as Sherlock's gaze eventually flicked up from the candle he was playing with. 

"Angelo," he said still without looking away, "I'll have the cannelloni, please." 

\---

A few translations for interests sake (I'm not an Italian speaker so apologies in advance!):

Buona sera Angelo, mi fido di te e la tua famiglia sono sani? 

_Good evening, Angelo, I trust you and your family are well? ___

Ciao amico, sì, sì, siamo ben! 

_Hello friend, yes, yes we are well! ___

Eccellente, potremmo avere una bottiglia di quel delizioso Barolo abbiamo avuto l'ultima volta? 

_Excellent, could we have a bottle of that delicious Barolo we had last time?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is it, the final chapter. I'm not really sure if this is what I intended it to be but it's what was keen to be written. I hope you've enjoyed this and yes - please do let me know your thoughts!  
> thanks  
> L


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